by Julie James
"Something a jury would actually pay attention to," Davis explained to Nick.
Nick understood the U.S. attorney's thinking behind this. He'd worked with enough prosecutors to know that they disliked cases where the evidence was primarily document-driven. Putting a boring IRS investigator on the witness stand to walk through pages and pages of indecipherable tax filings was the surest way to put a jury to sleep—and lose a conviction.
"So what other evidence do we have?" he asked.
"I've been watching Eckhart for the last few weeks and observed him meeting with this man." Huxley pulled up another image, a photograph of a man with jet black hair who appeared to be in his mid to late forties. He wore a dark overcoat with the collar turned up as he hurried into a building Nick didn't recognize.
"That's Carlo Trilani, being photographed outside Bordeaux," Huxley said. "He's been there on several occasions to meet with Eckhart, always when the restaurant is closed. We suspect that Trilani is one of Martino's men, although we don't have enough evidence yet to make an arrest. Hopefully, we'll nail both him and Eckhart as part of this investigation."
Nick was quickly catching on. "I'm guessing the tangible evidence we want lies in those meetings."
Huxley nodded. "What we need is a way to listen in on Eckhart and Trilani's conversations."
Nick saw where Huxley was going with this: electronic surveillance. More commonly used by the FBI than he suspected the average person realized, it was an investigative technique that often provided them the hard evidence they needed. The trick, however, was setting up the recording devices without tipping off the suspects. But the FBI had its ways.
"You said they meet at Bordeaux?" Nick asked.
"I should have been more clear. They don't actually meet in the restaurant. Eckhart, or more likely Trilani, is smarter than that." Huxley pulled up computer-generated blueprints of a building with two levels. "This is the layout of the building where Bordeaux is located." A progression of images flashed across the screen, with different areas on the blueprints highlighted in yellow as Huxley continued. "There's a restaurant on the main level, with an outdoor terrace overlooking the river. The VIP wine bar is located next to that, in this space right here. Below the restaurant and the wine bar is this lower level, where Eckhart keeps a private office. That's where he and Trilani meet."
"Can you get into the lower level through the bar?" Nick asked.
"Yes and no." Huxley zoomed in on the blueprints for the main level. "There's an interior door in the wine bar that leads to a staircase to the lower level. There's also this separate exterior entrance here, right next to the back door for the main bar. The problem is that both doors to the lower level—as well as all the windows—are protected by an alarm system."
"Eckhart has a separate security system for his office?" Nick asked.
"I think he's more concerned with this space here." Huxley brought up the blueprints for the lower level and highlighted a large space located down the hall from Eckhart's office. "This is the wine cellar for the VIP bar and the restaurant. That's the reason for the security system—Eckhart's got over six thousand bottles of wine down there. Really top stuff. I did some research; apparently Eckhart's a huge collector. Last year, Wine Spectator did a whole cover story on him and the cellar at Bordeaux. And a few weeks ago, he made a big splash in the wine community by paying two hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars for a case of rare wine."
"A quarter of a million dollars for wine?" Nick shook his head in disbelief. The things rich people did with their money.
"And that's just one case out of six thousand bottles," Huxley continued. "By all accounts, between wine and champagne, Eckhart's got over three million dollars in drinkable, easily transportable goods sitting underneath his restaurant."
Davis whistled. "Explains the security system."
Nick scoffed at this, not so easily impressed. Sure, maybe Eckhart's collection was worth a ton of money, but it was still just wine. Call him unrefined, but he wasn't about to get all hot and bothered over a bunch of fermented grape juice. A man's drink should be strong, and burn a little on the way down. Like bourbon. "Who has access to the password for the security system?"
"Only Eckhart and his two general managers, one of whom is required to be at Bordeaux whenever it's open. And according to our reports, they change the password every week."
"What reports?" Nick asked.
"We've got a female agent working undercover as a bartender—we set her up in the position a few weeks ago," Huxley said. "We'd planned to use her to get into the lower level of the restaurant, but Eckhart's security has proven to be more of a challenge than we'd expected."
Nick shrugged. "I don't see why we even need her—our next step seems simple enough. We get a court order forcing the alarm company to turn over the password to Eckhart's security system, then go in and bug the place in the middle of the night."
"Unfortunately, that's not an option in this case," Huxley said. "Eckhart uses a company called RLK Security. I checked them out—they do security for private homes and businesses. Including, notably, Roberto Martino's home."
Nick was impressed by Huxley's thoroughness. "I doubt that's a coincidence. I'm guessing Martino hooked Eckhart up with his security team once they went into business together."
"Even with a gag order, it's too risky to let RLK Security in on the plan. Anyone Martino trusts is not a friend of the FBI," Huxley said.
No disagreement there. "So where does that leave us?" Nick asked.
Huxley looked over at Davis. Nick sensed that this next part was the reason he'd been brought in for consulting.
"It means we do this in plain sight," Huxley said. "Every Valentine's Day, Eckhart hosts an exclusive charity event at Bordeaux. One hundred people on the list, five thousand dollars per head. As part of the event, Eckhart offers tastings from some of the rare wines he owns. He keeps a security guard stationed in a private tasting room near the cellar as a precautionary measure, but guests have general access to the lower level. Which means that an agent posing as a guest could slip away from the others during the party, break into Eckhart's office, and set the microphones in place." He cleared his throat. "That will be me."
Nick was missing something here. "Why not just have this agent we've already got on the inside plant the recording devices? Why else do we have her pretending to be a bartender?"
Huxley conceded this with a nod. "Originally, that was the plan. But Agent Simms has learned that employees don't have access to the lower level during the party—Eckhart has hired a private sommelier to pour the most expensive wines from his cellar for the guests. That was an unexpected development, but not a total loss—Simms can serve as backup upstairs while I plant the bugs in Eckhart's office."
"And how, exactly, do you plan to get into the party?" Nick asked. "I'm guessing the FBI isn't on Eckhart's invite list."
"True. So instead, I'm going to pose as the date of one of the guests."
Nick paused and eased back in his chair, taking that in. "That means getting a civilian involved." Generally, he didn't like using civilians in undercover operations. They were unpredictable and, frankly, a liability. Sometimes, however, circumstances made it necessary.
Huxley was quick to continue. "It's a one-shot deal, and the risk of harm to the civilian is minimal: she doesn't have to do anything except get me into the party. Once inside, I can take it from there."
Davis spoke for the first time since Huxley had begun outlining the parameters of the assignment. "What do you think, Nick?"
Nick studied the blueprints on the screen before him. Without the ability to bypass the alarm system, he didn't see any other way. "I'm not saying it can't work. But clearly this isn't the most typical way to plant recording devices."
"Good. The boys in Rockford can handle the typical stuff," Davis said.
Nick smiled at that. "True enough. But the trick will be to find Huxley here a date to this party. One who will be willing t
o play ball with us."
Huxley turned back to his computer, efficient as always. "Actually, I've already gone through the guest list. I've got the perfect candidate in mind."
"Just out of curiosity, how much longer is this presentation of yours?" Nick asked.
"Only eighteen more slides to go."
"We're going to need more coffee," Nick muttered to Davis. Then he looked over and saw the photograph on the screen before him of the woman Huxley apparently wanted to bring into the Eckhart operation.
Oh, hell.
Nick recognized the woman instantly. Not because he knew her personally, but because everyone in Chicago—and probably half the country in light of certain recent events—would recognize her. "Jordan Rhodes?" he asked incredulously. "She's the richest woman in Chicago."
Huxley brushed this aside with a wave. "Not quite. There's Oprah, of course. Nobody tops Oprah."
Davis pointed, throwing in his two cents from the head of the table. "And don't forget the Pritzkers."
"Good call. I think I'd put Jordan Rhodes more around fourth richest," Huxley mused.
Nick leveled them both with a stare. "Fine, let's just say top five, whatever."
"And technically it's her father's money, not hers," Huxley noted. "The Forbes list of the four hundred richest Americans puts Grey Rhodes's net worth at one point two billion dollars."
One point two billion. "And we want to drag this man's daughter into an undercover op?" Nick asked. "This is our best option?"
"The list of people attending Eckhart's party is extremely exclusive," Huxley said. "And we don't exactly have the luxury of interviewing candidates. We need someone that we can be certain will agree to help us. Someone who has a great deal of incentive to agree."
Nick took in the photograph of Jordan Rhodes on the screen. Reluctantly, he had to admit that Huxley raised a good point—fourth richest woman in Chicago or not, they did have leverage over her. Significant leverage.
"What's the matter, McCall? Afraid she's out of your league?" Davis asked with a sly grin. "Professionally speaking."
Nick had to fight back a laugh. Over the last six months, he'd posed undercover as everything from a drug dealer to a thief to a con artist, he'd spent nearly thirty nights in jail, and he'd taken down twenty-seven corrupt Chicago cops. He could certainly handle one billionaire heiress.
Xander Eckhart was his target now, at least for the next five days, and Jordan Rhodes appeared to be their best shot at making the investigation a successful one. Which meant that it was no longer a question of whether she cooperated with them, but when.
He nodded at Davis, all business. "Consider it done, boss."
Two
THE CHIME RANG on the front door of the wine store. Jordan Rhodes came out of the back room, where she'd been sneaking a quick bite for lunch. She smiled at her customer. "You again."
It was the guy from last week, the one who'd looked skeptical when she'd recommended a cabernet from South Africa that—gasp—had a screw top.
"So? How'd you like the Excelsior?" she asked.
"Good memory," he said, impressed. "You were right. It's good. Particularly at that price point."
"It's good at any price point," Jordan said. "The fact that it sells for less than ten dollars makes it a steal."
The man's blue eyes lit up as he grinned. He was dressed in a navy car coat and jeans, and wore expensive leather Italian loafers—probably too expensive for the six to eight inches of snow they were expected to get that evening. His light brown hair was mussed from the wind outside. "You've convinced me. Put me down for a case. I'm having a dinner party in a few weeks and the Excelsior will be perfect." He pulled off his leather gloves and set them on the long ebony wood counter that doubled as a bar. "I'm thinking I'll pair it with leg of lamb, maybe seasoned with black pepper and mustard seed. Rosemary potatoes."
Jordan raised an eyebrow. The man knew his food. "Sounds delicious." The Excelsior would certainly complement the menu, although she personally subscribed to the more relaxed "drink what you want" philosophy of wine rather than putting the emphasis on finding the perfect food pairing—a fact that constantly scandalized her assistant store manager, Martin. He was a certified level III sommelier, and thus had a certain view on things, while she, on the other hand, was the owner of the store and thus believed in making wine as approachable as possible to the customer. Sure, she loved the romance of wine—that was one of the main reasons she had opened her store, DeVine Cellars. But for her, it was also a business.
"I take it you cook," she said to the man with the great smile. Great hair, too, she noted approvingly. Nicely styled, on the longer side. He wore a gray scarf wrapped loosely around his neck that gave him an air of casual sophistication. Not too fussy, but a man who appreciated the finer things in life.
He shrugged. "I know my way around food. It comes with the job."
"Let me guess—you're a chef," Jordan said.
"Food critic. With the Tribune."
Jordan cocked her head, suddenly realizing. "You're Cal Kittredge."
He seemed pleased by her recognition. "You read my reviews."
Yes, she did, along with many others in Chicago. "Religiously. With so many restaurants in this city to choose from, it's nice to have an expert's opinion."
Cal relaxed against the counter. "An expert, huh ... I'm flattered, Jordan."
So. He knew her name.
Unfortunately, a lot of people knew her name. Between her father's wealth and her brother's recent infamy, rare was the person, at least in Chicago, who wasn't familiar with the Rhodes family.
Letting this sit for a moment, Jordan moved behind the counter and opened the laptop she kept there. "A case of the Excelsior it is." She pulled up her distributor's delivery schedule. "I can have it in the store next week."
"That's plenty of time. Do I pay for it now or when I pick it up?" Cal asked.
"Either one. I figure you're good for it. And now I know where to find you if you try to skip out."
Yes, she may have been flirting a little. Maybe more than a little. For the last few months, her family had been living under an intense spotlight because of the mess with her brother, and, frankly, dating had been the last thing on her mind. But things were finally starting to settle down—as much as things could ever settle down when one's twin brother was locked up in prison—and it felt good to be flirting. And if the object of said flirtation just so happened to have polished, refined good looks and was a first-class connoisseur of cuisine, well, all the better.
"Maybe I should skip out, just to make you come look for me," Cal teased.
And maybe she wasn't the only one flirting a little.
He stood opposite her with the counter between them. "Since you read my reviews, I take it you trust my opinions on restaurants?"
Jordan shot Cal a look over the top of her computer as she finished entering his wine order. "As much as I'd trust a complete stranger about anything, I suppose."
"Good. Because there's this Thai restaurant that just opened on Clark that's fantastic."
"Glad to hear it. I'll have to check it out sometime."
For the first time since entering her wine shop, Cal looked uncertain. "Oh. I meant that I thought you might want to go there with me."
Jordan smiled. Yes, she'd caught that. But a little warning alarm had gone off in her head as she wondered how many other women Cal Kittredge had used his "Do you trust my opinions on restaurants?" line on. There was no doubt he was charming and smooth. The question was whether he was too smooth.
She straightened up from her computer and leaned one hip against the bar. "Let's say this—when you come back to pick up the Excelsior, you can tell me more about this new restaurant then."
Cal seemed surprised by her nonacceptance, but not necessarily put off. "Okay. It's a date."
"I'd call it more ... a continuation."
"Are you always this tough on your customers?" he asked.
"Only the
ones who want to take me to new Thai restaurants."
"Next time, then, I'll suggest Italian." With a wink, Cal grabbed his gloves off the counter and left the store.
Jordan watched as he walked past the front windows and noticed that snow had begun to fall outside. Not for the first time, she was glad she lived only a five-minute walk from the shop. And that she had a good pair of snow boots.
"My God, I thought he'd never leave," said a voice from behind her.
Jordan turned and saw her assistant, Martin, standing a few feet away, near the back hallway. He walked over, carrying a case of zinfandel that he'd brought up from the cellar. He set the box on the counter and brushed away a few unruly reddish brown curls that had fallen into his eyes. "Whew. I've been standing back there holding that thing forever. Figured I'd give you two some privacy. I thought he was checking you out when he came in last week. Guess I was right."
"How much did you hear?" Jordan asked as she began to help him unpack the bottles.
"I heard that he's Cal Kittredge."
Of course Martin had focused on that. He was twenty-seven years old, more well read than anyone she knew, and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was a major food and wine snob. But he knew everything about wine, and he'd grown on her. Jordan couldn't imagine running the shop without him.
"He asked me to go to some new Thai restaurant on Clark," she said.
Martin was instantly impressed. "I've been trying to get reservations there for two weeks." He lined the remaining bottles on the bar and tossed the empty box onto the floor. "Lucky you. If you start dating Cal Kittredge, you'll be able to get into all the best restaurants. For free."
Jordan modestly remained silent as she grabbed two bottles of the zin and carried them to a bin near the front of the store.
